inanis
by Icestorm238
Summary: Inanis: void, empty, hollow; vain; inane, foolish - Loki grieves his mother.


It is when he's at his lowest that she appears.

She flashes into his vision, there for the briefest of moments, and near-instantly, far too quickly, she's gone. He gasps and stretches his hand out, reaching desperately for what is no longer there. He has felt need before, a burning desire to be better, greater, stronger, (loved, appreciated, noticed), but this need hurts in a way that's painfully new. His entire body aches with it, aches for the remnants of her like a wilting flower yearns for the sun. He _wants_ , so brutally _needs_ , and it's shockingly agonising.

 _There._ She flickers back into view and stays for longer this time. She looks as she always did: her glossy hair is pinned up, falling in soft curls down past her shoulders, neat as ever, and her outfit is immaculate (he would expect no less) - the blue dress and the golden armour she is garbed in are identical twins to those she bled out in, sans the blood that left her pale and lifeless and _gone_.

A rough sob forms in his throat, taking him by surprise as he reaches again for her image. She smiles, gentle, kind, full of the warmth she always had an abundance of, and was always willing to share with him no matter upset she was with his antics. She phases out of existence once more, though her visage remains implanted in his mind. His cheeks are damp with tears, a physical representation of his longing for her.

He remembers the day she was ripped away from him, the memory coming unbidden - the agony he felt was brutal as it sunk in that he would never see her laugh again, never hear her voice again, never feel her love again.

He remembers when he learnt that she was gone, late in the night, long after the riot had been quelled. It wasn't Thor or Odin - they couldn't be bothered to tell him, why should they care enough to inform him of the death of the only person he'd truly, unconditionally loved? (He hadn't even been allowed to the funeral, hadn't known he'd missed it until it was weeks too late.) No, they'd instead delegated the task to an Einherjar, of all people, who'd delivered the news with a curt "Queen Frigga is dead," and left.

He remembers how, through the haze of tears and screams and outbursts that he'd carefully wrapped in an illusion of peace and composure that fooled all but Thor, he hadn't even realised that he had directed the escaping prisoner (murderer) right to her, hadn't even realised until far later that he had played a role in her death.

His last words to her haunted him, constantly ringing in his mind, tormenting him for his mistake. She had always been there for him, picking him back up when Thor ran off without him, soothing him when Odin lost his temper for reasons he could not understand, guiding him through the intricacies of magic and giving him something that was uniquely _his_ , and he had repaid her by accelerating her death and denouncing their relationship _._ The guilt had consumed him, tearing him apart from the inside, devouring him whole (he couldn't do anything right; he couldn't please Odin, he wasn't enough for Thor, he couldn't even protect his mother).

She had loved him, a little Frost Giant reject she had no reason to care for, unreservedly - raised him as her own when she could have easily ignored his presence altogether. When he felt alone and unwanted, she was there to convince him otherwise. When he needed support, he knew he could always turn to her.

And now? She is gone, and he has never felt more alone.

She reappears, her beauty immortalised in this vision of his, her majesty unyielding, her wonder undying.

He reaches once more for her, and this time she smiles and reaches back-

-she is gone, disappearing as soon as their fingertips touch, and he is alone.

The room he is currently occupying in Sakaar is lavishly decorated, unnecessarily expensive objects piled to the ceiling, furniture golden and shimmering and infinitely more comfortable than anything back in Asgard, but now, in this one moment, as he sits in solitude and flounders in his own lack of worth?

The room (and he) couldn't feel more empty.


End file.
